


A Reward for the Missing Holmes

by elsexton29



Category: Anastasia (1997), Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Abduction, Alternate Universe - Fairy Tale, Anastasia AU, And finally Mycroft is Dowager Marie, Anthea is Sophie, Except he is not a dog, France (Country), Gen, John is Dimitri, Kidlock, Lestrade is Pooka, Love, M/M, Mike is Vladmir, Missing Persons, Moran is Bartok, Moriarty is Grigori Rasputin, New Year's Eve, Russia, Sherlock is Anastasia, Teenlock, anst
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-08-01
Updated: 2013-08-25
Packaged: 2017-12-22 01:27:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 7,199
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/907267
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elsexton29/pseuds/elsexton29
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John’s mother was previously a chef for Ambassador Holmes’s Embassy. After being invalided home from the army, he hears the rumour stating that the only surviving, eldest son was offering a hefty some for the return of his long lost brother. With little to no finances to speak of, John sets about on a con to come by the reward with the help of his friend, Mike Stamford. It is a surprise to everyone when he discovers he may have stumbled across the real Sherlock Holmes. </p><p>As with any great adventure, comes the person who wants to watch it all burn. Moriarty isn’t happy to find out that Sherlock escaped his plan for the boy’s death many years ago, and is determined to get it right this time.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Ambassador Holmes

**Author's Note:**

> This story is inspired by the 1997 Animated Film _Anastasia_ by 20th Century Fox. I hope you have as much fun reading it as I did writing it.
> 
> I'm sorry for any inaccuracies. I am doing my best to do as much research as possible.

Mycroft’s sombre green eyes scanned the ornately decorated room in attempt to search for his little brother. The Embassy of the United Kingdom in Moscow was overflowing with all manner of people attempting to celebrate the coming of the New Year, and made it difficult to see more than a few bodies into the crowd. He walked around the outlaying area knowing Sherlock would have distanced himself as far as possible from the commotion. 

He had pleaded with Mummy to leave Sherlock be, but she insisted that Mycroft go scavenge for him. What ever Mummy wanted, Mycroft always obliged. Just like when he agreed to go to school in France so he could fulfil her dreams of following in his father’s footsteps. It was a long-standing tradition of the Holmes’ in the position of UK Ambassador to Russia, but his mother insisted he should go to France. She was French and would love nothing more than to see Mycroft gain office in her home country. He didn’t put up much of a fight.

Mycroft had always thought that the day he agreed to leave was the day that Sherlock started to resent him. His brother had always been independent, distant, and brilliant in his own way; but there was a part of Sherlock that was more human than he had let be known. Mycroft had witnessed it. It was in the way that Sherlock cried silently in his room after being in a fight with the other boys because he was smaller and different from them. It was in the way that no one thought that he would have survived his first year after being born too early. It was in the way that Sherlock had crawled into Mycroft’s bed at night when other’s had been particularly cruel to him. Mycroft knew that it was all because he felt abandoned, even if he would never admit it. Sherlock was still a small child, and he hoped that in time he would come to understand. 

It wasn’t until Mycroft explored the balcony overlooking the river Moskva that he found him struggling to look over the rail and observe the crowd gathered on the pavement below. The snow was gathering in the curls of his hair, but Mycroft decided pointing it out wouldn’t be beneficial for anyone. 

“They finally let you out of that prison?” Sherlock asked not bothering to turn around and see whom it was. Instead he continued to look at the mass of people who were about to take part in a revered past time of walking around aimlessly after midnight on New Years. 

Mycroft positioned his umbrella in front of himself. “Mummy is looking for you.” 

“I doubt that I would inflict any positive development on their proceedings.” 

He took in the young boys posture. Still small for his age of eight, but what he lacked in height he made up for in curly dark brunet hair. He could also see the collar of his shirt open from where he either removed the bowtie that he was encouraged to wear, or refused to put it on at all. “While that is probably true, Mummy wants you there nonetheless.” He set a package he had been carrying on the rail beside Sherlock’s hand. “Your birthday is in a few days and I’ll be back in Paris.”

He studied it for a moment and then looked up to Mycroft. “A book?” 

Mycroft sighed fully aware that he would have known right away. “Just open it.” 

Sherlock abandoned the railing in favour of demolishing the wrapping. He never could ignore a good mystery. “I can’t read this.” He stated looking at the characters adorning the front cover. 

“It is in Russian. It is a study covering Zaitsev’s Rule among others. It seemed only fitting to get it in its native language. It gives you a reason to study it. Father probably expects you to take over his position one day. It would be beneficial for you to know some of the language.” 

Sherlock pulled the book to his chest and glanced up at Mycroft. He couldn’t help but notice how young he actually looked. His were eyes exuding the age that his mouth always seemed to be years ahead of. “I don’t want to.” 

Mycroft looked over the river. The lights of the city refracting off of the surface and making it look like a dance of a thousand fireflies. “I really hope you never have to.” Sherlock’s eyes seemed to mimic the shimmer of the water. “Look inside.” 

Sherlock caught the object that had tumbled out before it had a chance to hit the ground. Mycroft was constantly jealous of his graceful reflexes. Sherlock squeezed the object in his hand while his eyes darted over the inscription Mycroft had wrote. 

_There will be times when you question who you are. While no one can answer that for you, hopefully a little organic chemistry will at least tell you what you’re made of._

He closed the cover and took interest in the object in his hand. “The family ring?” He asked as he held up by the chain it was on. 

Mycroft shrugged nonchalantly. The ring was a big deal in their family. It was always passed down to the oldest son, but for as long as he had been away, he felt Sherlock needed it more. “You’re the oldest Holmes here at the embassy.” 

Sherlock examined it for a moment. Satisfied, he tried to slip it onto his finger. It was still much too big for him, so he slipped the chain over his neck. “It will do.” He responded. For Sherlock, that was as close to a ‘Thank you’ as Mycroft had ever received.

_________________________________________ 

“What are you doing here, John?” His mother asked as she plated food she just pulled from the cooker. “You are supposed to be up in our flat remaining quiet.”

John reached for a tart only for his mother to swat his hand away. “I’m hungry.” He replied in his best mock distressed voice as he ruffled his sandy blond hair.

“What is wrong with the items in our refrigerator?” She questioned not missing a beat as she stirred something in a large bowl.

“Doesn’t look nearly as good as the food here.” He lied. 

His mother sighed. “No, you are simply bored. John, you are twelve. Much too young to be helping out and you certainly can’t be seen by any of the guests.” 

“But Harry is helping!” John whined. 

“Harry is also sixteen. Upstairs. Now.” She responded. Her voice indicating that she was done with this conversation completely, and she refused to look up from her work again. 

John slumped disappointedly out of the kitchen. He started to make his way over to the staircase, but decided to take the long way around. This route allowed him views of the main hall as well as all the beautifully dressed people. 

Passing by the second corner, he heard voices in an opposite direction. John had a well-deserved reputation for being mischievous, and he couldn’t turn down a chance for a little danger. He pulled his body in close to the wall and tiptoed toward the sound. The rush of cold air seemed to flow right through his bones as he came across the open door to the balcony. The oldest Holmes child was watching the other as he tried to climb over the railing. Both seemed to be dressed for the party, yet neither was attending. He pressed against the wall beside the door as he tried to listen to what they were saying.

“JOHN!” He heard a hiss from behind him as the collar on his jumper threatened to give way to the aggressor. 

He smacked the hand away, and turned to see his older sister standing over him. She was dressed in her serving uniform and had an empty platter. “Go away, Harry.” 

“You’re not supposed to be down here. Do you want Mum to get fired?” She whispered forcefully. Her eyes seemed to be alight with anger. 

John stood defiantly. “I won’t get caught.” 

“Of course you will. Get out of here. I don’t care where you go, but anywhere not on the ground floor.” She pointed as she dragged him back in the direction of the stairs. “Go before I lock you in your wardrobe.”

_________________________________________ 

“Your son. As promised.” Mycroft said to his mother while motioning to the slow moving Sherlock coming through an entrance to the side.

“Thank you, dear.” She responded and patted his arm. “He looks to be in better mood than when I pleaded with him to get dressed earlier this evening.” 

Mycroft turned to watch him. “Sometimes you just have to know what to say.” 

Just as Sherlock approached the rest of his family, the music was shut off and a presenter was being handed a microphone. “Thank you all for coming.” He greeted. “As many know it is almost time for the new year!” He motioned to the large expanse of windows as the room waited quietly together. Just the clock struck midnight, every light in the building flipped off and the massive amount of fireworks could be spotted through the high windows. Their large colours burst over the Moskva, and the sound rumbled throughout the concrete of the building. People cheered and the lights were turned back on. 

“Thank you for joining us, Sherlock. It means a lot to me.” Their mother said to Sherlock. He simply shrugged and looked over the people beginning to dance with an uninterested gaze. 

The atmosphere was just picking back up as there was a loud blast and a shatter from the chandelier overhead. Everyone instantly froze as it boomed again. People jumped away from the sound, and began to form a ring around a person in the middle of the crowd. The man, no older than Mycroft, lifted his gun once, but didn’t fire this time. The remaining lights were flickering as individuals frantically started to press themselves as far back as they could. 

In the quiet of the room, everyone could hear him as he began to giggle. “Do you have any idea who I am?” He questioned arrogantly. His voice was thick with an Irish accent. “No, I don’t suppose you do.” 

Mycroft’s eyes darted around the room hurriedly for his father’s not-so-secret service. Every dark suit that had been occupying the shadows moments earlier had disappeared. 

“See, my father used to work for you.” He pointed the gun towards the Holmes family, and the crowd parted to give him a direct line to their father at the front of the room. “He gave you years of his life, and yet you called him a traitor. You put him in prison and ruined my whole family.” 

Their father spoke calmly. “Moriarty. You’re a Moriarty?” 

“Yes. I bet you don’t remember little Jim, do you?” His voice grew louder as he became more furious. “You ruined my life, and I will not rest until I see you destroyed as well. A fortnight. Enjoy it, because that is all you and your precious family have.” He scowled, waving the gun around. 

There was no light. The entire block must have gone dark because Mycroft couldn’t see an arms length away. He didn’t dare move for fear of running into someone else. 

There was a fumbling for the lights, and they flooded the room, destroying everyone’s sight. As he regained his vision, his focus remained on the centre of the room. It was empty and Jim Moriarty was gone.


	2. A Fortnight

It wasn’t that he was directed specifically not to listen in on his mother’s and Mycroft’s conversation. They were speaking in the study. Anyone who had an ounce of intelligence would know that the vent in the study connected directly with the bathroom above, and every word was clearly audible. Sherlock was simply in the right place at the wrong time. At least that was his preconceived lie as he locked the bathroom door and pressed his ear to the floor. 

“It doesn’t seem to be effecting him in the least. If I didn’t know any better, I would say that he didn’t even hear it.” Mycroft’s voice drifted up from the floor below. 

His mother’s voice seemed to tremble as she spoke in a hushed tone. “I don’t think that he could bare it if you would leave so soon. Can’t you at least stay until this whole threat has passed?” 

“I doubt he would notice my absence much at all.” 

“Mycroft, you know he looks up to you. He has so much trouble when you are gone. Surely you’re not fooled by his act.” 

Mycroft hesitated. “I am not an expert in judging people, but I do believe that there is a difference in him.” 

“So you’ll stay?” 

“Anything you want, Mummy.”

_________________________________________ 

“Do you know what I’m planning here, Sebastian?” Moriarty asked as he crouched over a desk.

Moran was standing at attention beside the door. Moriarty was fully aware that it was an unconscious decision, but he quite enjoyed the old habit his older comrade had picked up in his days in the army before he was dishonourably discharged. “Not at all.” 

Moriarty slouched down into his seat and waved a hand across the collage of papers that balanced atop the surface. “Have a look.” He suggested playfully. “I am going to destroy the Holmes if it takes selling my soul to do so.” He watched Moran’s slumped shoulders as his eyes grazed over each document. Conscious to the fact that his brain didn’t comprehend the intricacies of the plan, he moved in closer. “I will turn their own people against them. All it takes is a few whispered words in the right ears and a few pounds in the right pockets, and we can turn over an empire. It doesn’t take much effort to spread a few rumours that will mean the end of the family.” 

Moran scratched the back of his head as his gaze drifted up to meet Moriarty’s. “How does that kill them? I thought the goal was to kill them instead of put them in prison.” 

“Yes, but when arrests are performed, sometimes things get carried away. It would be a tragedy if everyone in the house were killed, but no one ever mourns a traitors death for long.”

_________________________________________ 

“Mycroft!” Sherlock yelled trying to shake his brother awake. “Mycroft! We have to go!”

He rubbed his eyes lazily. “What?” His voice still sounding like gravel. 

Sherlock felt frantic as he tried to persuade him to move. “They’re coming. I saw them gathering in the street. They’re making their move.” Sherlock watched as Mycroft jolted awake.

Mycroft chased after him as he ran down the hall back to his own bedroom. Sherlock stood at the window waiting on him to catch up and pointed to the group of Russian Militia on their doorstep. He looked up to Mycroft waiting on instructions of what to do next. Mycroft may only be seventeen, but Sherlock turned to him when things got desperate. He always knew his big brother could fix something that was out of his depth. 

He didn’t speak. Instead he grabbed Sherlock’s hand and ran full on towards their parent’s bedroom. Sherlock could barely keep his legs moving fast enough not to trip over himself. If it weren’t for Mycroft holding him up, he would have been a blob in the hall several paces back. 

The door to their parent’s room flung open noisily, but Mycroft didn’t flip on the light. “We have to go. He did it.” Mycroft’s words tumbled out. They had heard the rumours, but their father had reassured them that it was only gossip. That nothing could come from a child spouting off nonsense. Apparently he was wrong. 

Their father moved slowly out of bed and slipped past Mycroft and Sherlock. “They only want me. Go back to bed.” 

Their mother joined their father in walking down the hallway and out of sight. 

Sherlock squeezed Mycroft’s hand. “Let’s go.” 

Mycroft pulled him back. “No. They asked us not to follow.” 

Sherlock scoffed and wiggled out of his grip. “I’m going.” He said defiantly. He stepped lightly around the corner and peered down the flight of stairs to the front door. His parents seemed to be talking calmly to the soldiers. He didn’t have to look to know that Mycroft had walked up behind him. 

His father was gesturing wildly as a soldier struck him with an oblong object and he fell to the floor. Sherlock’s heart stopped beating as his mother screamed and dropped down beside her husband. 

His hand was snatched again he was running once more. He could barely tear his eyes off of the scene below as he was pulled away. He was not aware of how he had communicated to his feet to start moving, but as he regained his mind he was thankful someone was in control.

_________________________________________ 

John woke to a loud shatter from floors below.

He turned over in his nice warm bed, and attributed the sound to some dark path his dreams had turned as he tried to fall back asleep. It was still dark out and he wouldn’t miss the opportunity for a little more rest.

He was shaken from his daze once again by another loud clash. Call it reflexes, call it instinct, call it god interfering, but something made John go to the window and take in the scene below. Lights flared into the night sky and noisy people filled the snowy street. 

His hand pressed to the icy glass as he took it all in. His sleep-fogged brain still lagging behind the rest of him. The Holmes. They were here for the Holmes. 

Another sound of breaking drifted into his ears, and John was racing out of his room. Into what or whom he wasn’t sure, but he couldn’t sit by idly. The whole household staff was perfectly aware of what people were saying. Those who had doubts had left right away, but John’s mother couldn’t afford to lose her job. John wasn’t going to allow that loyalty to be in vain. Whatever sound came from below was more than just being arrested. Something was going wrong. 

His bare feet cared him around corners and down flights of stairs. He could hear the elevators buzzing up the floors as it carried the assailants higher. 

John almost toppled over the young Holmes boy as he rushed around a corner. His feet tangled around themselves and he managed a not-so-graceful landing on the wall. 

His voice grew inside of himself without giving it permission. “There was no one using the service stairs. Go.” He motioned back the direction he had come.

The older one pulled his brother after him, but the young boy protested. “We can’t just leave him.” 

“Sherlock, he’ll be fine. Let’s go.” He shushed. 

It was the last John saw of either of them. 

He slouched on the wall behind him as he caught his breath. The hall was still dark. It could be any other night if he could only block out the sounds that seemed to seep into every floorboard. 

“Where are they?” Came a loud voice in a heavy Russian accent from a team of men that stepped into view. 

John defensively crouched and refused to answer. He hardly saw the baton as it came down to hit him squarely on the right side of his head. The floor knocked the breath from his lungs as he fell down hard. 

He heard a stampede of feet just as his vision gave way to darkness.

_________________________________________ 

“Sherlock, keep up.” Mycroft yelled as he pulled him along. The snow was thick on the ground, and there was sure to be footprints that lead straight to them.

Sherlock tried to move his feet faster as they rounded out of the garden and onto the pavement. It was hard in his heavy boots. Mycroft hadn’t allowed him time to decide upon proper footwear. 

Mycroft darted across the street to a trolleybus waiting on the other side. He paused momentarily to pay for the two of them and motioned for Sherlock to take a seat in the mostly empty bus. 

“Where are we going?” Sherlock whispered into Mycroft’s ear as he took the seat beside him. 

Mycroft gaped at the seat in front of him. He shook his head and it seemed to bring everything back into focus. “London, first. We need to get some things from our house. Then Paris.” 

Sherlock crossed his arms. “I don’t want to go to Paris!” 

Mycroft glared at him and spoke to him in a hushed voice. “Who knows what just happened back there. Right now, we’re going to take this as it comes at us. We can’t afford to get side tracked. We need to get out of Russia, immediately. London seems like the obvious choice for someone who is trying to kill us. So kindly, please do shut up.” 

Sherlock slumped down in his seat and took the words to heart. He didn’t speak when they got on the train, or when they boarded a ferry in Holland, or when they arrived finally in London. He didn’t even speak as they slipped in the back door of their house and Sherlock made his way to his old room. 

He quickly changed his clothes and put a few choices in a suitcase. He was exhausted from the very long journey, even with the sleep he got on the ferry. 

All packed, he pulled the book out that Mycroft had given him. He stared at the front and its indistinguishable letters. The red cover a stark contrast to the gold characters. 

He tossed it. Tossed it somewhere into a dark corner and left. 

He didn’t need the book and he didn’t need Mycroft.

London was his home and he wasn’t leaving. 

Sentiment was no longer an advantage.


	3. Ten Years

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _*To fit smoothly with the story of Anastasia, their ages will be much younger than in Sherlock, as the story takes place in the early 2000s._

“Your meeting with the Consulate General has been moved up to 4:30 and the Prime Minister wants an economic status on his desk before the end of the week.” Anthea chimed, as she stared into the depths of her blackberry.

“Very good. Thank you.” Mycroft dismissed. He wasn’t in the best mind-set to be dealing with other people today. It was the ten-year anniversary of the day of the murder of his mother and father. Tomorrow will be when he lost his brother. No one except Anthea would remember, and she only did because it was her job to plan his entire life. She was the closest he would ever have to a wife, or even a friend. 

He waited until she vacated the room and walked over to the large windows to watch the people scurrying like vermin on the pavement. There was a light dusting of snow covering balconies and awnings, but it had mostly melted on the surface below. 

He had accomplished it. He was the youngest UK Ambassador by four years, beating out the Ambassador to Guatemala. It was a lot to be proud of by twenty-seven. It just felt bittersweet without the desired result behind the work. He had climbed ranks quickly with the goal of finding his brother in mind. He was so sure that if he could only get to a high ranking official then he would have the resources to find him. With his connections as well as the money his parents left him, he still couldn’t find Sherlock. He just disappeared that night. 

He was still plagued with nightmares about going to get Sherlock so they could leave for Paris, and he was unable to find him. In his dreams, he was still running around that house looking for him in an unending maze of unfamiliar corridors. 

He allowed himself two minutes as he sat behind his desk to grieve. His hands pressed against his eyes in desperation to get the thoughts out of his mind. 

Mycroft pressed the call button on the phone. “Anthea, can you come in here?” He asked over the speaker. 

She walked through the door precisely forty-six seconds later. “Yes?” She stared at him for the unexpected beckoning. She always knew what Mycroft was going to do before he did, but this must have caught her off guard if she left the mobile behind. 

“Tomorrow. Can you arrange a press conference?” He said. His voice sounded drained even to his own ears. 

“What would it be concerning?” She questioned softly, as if she was afraid he was about to explode at any moment. 

“A reward. 10 million pounds for the return of my brother.”

_________________________________________ 

The army had previously only been a way to pay for John’s medical school after his mum died. He never expected to make a career out of it, or have it change his life. That was until he was shot.

When joining the Army, he was told he wouldn’t be in a battle. He would be hanging back and wounded soldiers would be brought to him at a makeshift hospital. That was two years before the war started. When the call came out for the front lines, out of a sense of national obligation, John signed up. That was how he was caught bent over a wounded comrade who had just been shot in the leg and was losing blood fast, without the necessary training to do a proper job without panicking. He had barely heard the crack of the gun as the bullet sliced through his left shoulder. He couldn’t tell where his body started and his dying friend’s began. All he felt was angry hot pain that felt like his flesh was melting. 

It was that incident that left him with an intermittent tremor in his left hand, and a psychosomatic limp of his right leg. His Army pension didn’t even cover the costs of his meagre bedsit, and he couldn’t further his medical degree because he couldn’t control the trembling in his dominant hand. 

He refused to let Harry help. She had begun drinking heavily once their mother died, and sleeping around with different women although she was already married. His pride wouldn’t allow him to rely upon her. She did insist upon giving him her old mobile phone but he never saw much use for the device. He couldn’t imagine how they were expected to catch on when everyone had a landline. She insisted it was so she could get a hold of him in an emergency, but it felt more like a leash. 

Instead, he spent his mornings trying to get the odd job, and the afternoons trying to convince his therapist that there was nothing wrong with him as she stared at him over a large pad of paper and pressured him to keep a journal. 

He hadn’t wanted to keep in touch with any of his old mates when he got back, but Mike Stamford sought him out and never seemed to leave. The two were very close after John had returned from Russia, and even did a little of their training together at Bart’s. Like John, Mike hadn’t finished his training either. Unlike John, Mike still lived with his parents. 

“We should be able to come up with something. We’re two intelligent men. There has to be a way to make a little extra money.” Mike grumbled as he walked at John’s pace beside him. John couldn’t help but think that it was a bad idea that he had come out for a walk because his leg was aching terribly, but he didn’t want it to stop him living any more than it already had. 

“You’ve known for a while I would probably have to move back to Wokingham. I can’t afford London. Not on my army pension.” John sighed as he repeated for the third time today. 

“You could come stay with me.” He offered. 

John chuckled. “What? Stay with your parents? Somehow, I don’t think that is a good idea.” 

“There has to be something that can keep you in London.” Mike started. “Wait, have you heard of the diplomat paying for information about his long lost little brother?” 

John glanced at him quizzically. “What?” 

“The ambassador to France. I saw it this morning on the telly. He is offering 10 million pounds for the return of his brother who went missing ten years ago.” 

“You’re not suggesting . . . “ John began. “How could we possibly find someone who a slew of trained officers could not locate?” He had to be taking the piss. 

Mike smiled mischievously. “You can’t tell me that our old rugby captain is afraid of a little danger. Who said it actually had to be his brother? It has been ten years. Do you really think his brother is still alive? He would have just came forward himself. We just find someone who resembles him and teach him what to say. We exchange a cash deal, and we’re gone before he notices he has been fooled.” 

“How could we possibly teach him what to say?” John asked still not convinced in the least of Mike’s half-brained scheme.

“Didn’t I tell you? It is the Holmes boy they are looking for.”

_________________________________________ 

It wasn’t that he didn’t have a past. It was just that what ever it was, it wasn’t important. He treated his mind like a hard drive, and if the information wasn’t necessary, it was erased to make way for useful data.

He resided primarily in a tiny flat with three other junkies, but he hardly paid them any attention. They didn’t ask him personal questions, and he never answered. It was just a way to get off the street for a few hours when it was cold. 

One particularly chilly evening, he found himself stumbling into a draughty, boarded up building. Deciding to sleep off his high here than attempting to make it back to his forlorn apartment, he had inadvertently became part of a homicidal investigation. 

An officer of Scotland Yard woke him from a drug-induced slumber. “What are you doing here?” The detective asked, kicking his foot. 

He jolted awake and threw his hands up. He frequently had dreams of being chased by assailants, and it typically kept him on his toes when coming from a deep sleep. 

“What is your name, kid?” The officer repeated. 

He thought about it for a beat. He had constructed many stories, but none of which were true. He had no name and no way of identifying him. He had recreated himself into someone completely new whenever it suited the situation. “Stephen.” He answered with the name he had taken to recently. 

“Do you know where you are, Stephen?” He asked leaning down to observe his still dilated pupils. There was no denying he was high. 

“Baker Street.” He responded. He had memorized the entire layout of London. It was that type of information that he deemed important. 

“This is private property and only rooms away from a homicide.” He replied. “We better get you cleaned up. They are going to have some questions for you.” The officer reached out his hand offering assistance. 

He took in his appearance. Police officer, that was obvious, but didn’t wear a uniform so he was a detective. The lack of command in his voice, along with the determination to prove himself, meant sergeant not inspector. “Have you been separated from your wife for long Detective Sergeant?” He asked, brushing himself off and standing on his own. Even through the fading cloud of cocaine he was still more intelligent than the best of Scotland Yard. 

The detective looked at him stunned. “How did you - ?” He stammered. “Three weeks.” He admitted.

He smiled smugly. “Long enough for it to show in your appearance. Your clothes. They are suitable, but not pressed. A shirt that nice would have been bought by someone who took care of you. Obviously, you aren’t aware of certain intricacies of basic domestic life, and it frustrates you.” 

The detective looked up at him. He was several years older, but almost everyone was shorter. “Detective Sergeant Lestrade.” He greeted, holding out his hand. He seemed a little insulted, but more astounded. 

He nodded. “Lestrade. As you can perfectly see, I am capable of answering the questions you throw at me, even in my current state.”

_________________________________________ 

“That was brilliant. If you can do that while half out of your mind, what could you do sober?” Lestrade asked as they stood outside the building. He hadn’t only answered their questions, but pointed them in the direction of the actual murderer.

He shrugged. “Not sure. Don’t allow myself to get that far.”

Lestrade pulled a card from his coat pocket. “If you ever get cleaned up, I could certainly recommend you to the right people with that talent of yours.” 

He took the card and looked it over. Simple enough. It contained a name and a phone number. “I doubt that will happen any time soon.” 

Lestrade began to walk away, but turned back. “It is a waste.” He returned to walking out of the building. “This is private property, so you might want to leave. Belongs to a diplomat, or something.” 

“By the amount of collected dust, no one has lived here for a decade.” He mumbled back as he watched Lestrade disappear through the door.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The worst part of this chapter is picking a name for Sherlock that wasn't Sherlock. I hope no one hates me for my choice.


	4. Sherlock Holmes

“I really don’t think that we’ll find anything useful here.” John mumbled as they slipped past the cracked door to the Holmes house. “They didn’t even live here at the end. How are we supposed to find anything that will help us teach someone to be him?” 

“It won’t be that hard. The child was only eight when he disappeared. He couldn’t have made that much of an impact.” Mike replied picking up a picture that was on the fireplace. He wiped the thick layer of dust off to reveal two boys in the picture. The older one had bright red hair and a dashing of freckles across his nose. The other was very thin and small with a dark mop of curls. 

“That’s him.” John mentioned pointing to the younger boy. He took the picture from Mike’s hands and examined it. “I had forgotten what he looked like.” 

“Good. We can use that for reference. Let’s keep looking.” Mike disappeared down the hall. 

“This doesn’t seem right. Going through someone else’s stuff like this.” John said following him. 

Mike turned to stare at him. “If we are going to do this, I am going to need you to be with me. Either we turn and leave right now, or we keep searching. You can move out of London and spend the rest of your days growing into the old man you’ve become since you came back from the war, or you get your life back.” 

John tightened his grip on his cane. “Lead the way.”

_________________________________________ 

As they returned into the foyer after searching each of the rooms, John froze. He spotted a figure moving around the far edge of the long hall. It was clearly a man, but he was wearing an oversized coat that hid his features. “Wait! What are you doing in here?” John called out.

The man whipped around. He seemed to glide as he walked up to face them. “I think the better question is what are you doing here?” He asked. His deep voice didn’t seem to fit with his thin angular face. It was rare that John felt outside of his comfort zone, but this man’s icy gaze seemed to peel back the layers of his skin. 

“I work here.” John replied reflexively. He always thought himself a good liar when the occasion called for it. 

The man squinted. “No you don’t. If you did,” He motioned to the dirt and dust on the shelf to his right “you’re not doing a good job.” He circled around John like a vulture might dance around a dead animal. “It appears that you are looting, except you don’t have anything of value.” In a fight or flight scenario, John had proven countless times he would rather fight. He held his ground as the man pulled the book from his left hand. “Army. Invalided home.” He mumbled. “What could you possibly have to do with a book of Russian chemistry and an old photograph? Clearly, neither of the boys are you.” 

John raised his eyebrows as he watched him closely. He considered lying, but only for a moment. “We are here looking for clues to the disappearance of Sherlock Holmes.” 

The man’s interest seemed peaked. “Someone has disappeared - from this place?” He examined his surroundings unbelievingly. 

“Not recently. Ten years ago. A young boy just vanished.” 

“You must have heard about it.” Mike suggested. 

John swore he could see little people riffling through dusty files inside the man’s head. “No. Can’t say that I remember.” His attention then turned to Mike. “You aren’t looking for him though, are you? You are going to create him. That’s why you need this seemingly meaningless clutter.” He clapped his hands together. “Brilliant. I believe you could be of assistance.” 

“Wait- what?” John stuttered. 

“You two couldn’t possibly pull off deceiving an elected official. You couldn’t even fool a blind man into thinking that the colour of his jumper was red, or something ridiculous. You would be hopeless without me.” 

“Why would you want to help us?” 

“I expect there to be a hefty reward in the end. I could do with the extra money, and a little time to keep my brain occupied while I detox.” He answered nonchalantly. 

“While you what?” John’s question echoed around the room. 

He pulled his coat securely around him. “One could say that I’ve had a much more interesting proposition come up, and I will need a form of entertainment until the process is complete. This happens to offer the perfect amount of distraction.” 

John stared at him incredulously. “We’re not going to be your mobile rehab. If you need help, you should go to a professional.” 

“You have two years medical training. You are more than capable of handling it, and it is all a matter of mind over body. It’s all transport.”

“No, we’re not going to –“ 

Mike grabbed John’s arm. “No, wait. We could use him. Look.” He said grabbing the picture. “If you squint hard enough he almost looks like the missing boy. His face is much longer and more defined, but at least he has the same blue eyes and hair colour. Where else are we going to find a willing participant?” Mike turned back to the man. “You think that you could deceive anyone?” 

His smile was as smug as the rest of him. “Absolutely anyone.” 

“You want to participate, then you get to be the bait.” Mike declared. 

John cleared his throat. “We don’t even know your name.” 

“You can call me Stephen.”

_________________________________________ 

Moran entered into Moriarty’s office. “Boss? Have you seen the press conference?” He asked.

He glanced up from the apple he had been cutting into. “What?” 

Moran turned the television on where Mycroft Holmes was speaking into a microphone. 

“Looking for his baby brother is he?” Moriarty scoffed. “All this time I have spent weaving myself into the French government, and now I may actually get a two-for-one deal.” His voice rose at the end of his sentence playfully. 

Moran just waited silently for him to continue. 

“I have spent so long toying with the eldest Holmes. If he succeeds in his mission, there will be a new toy to play with.”

_________________________________________ 

“So let me get this right. You don’t actually remember your name, or your past.” John asked leaning forward in his seat. After Mike had bailed, they had decided to go out for lunch. Stephen looked like he could use a meal. He wore that ridiculously large coat, but he was obviously malnourished. Unfortunately, he had hardly touched his food.

“My brain is like a computer. Information not deemed suitable gets deleted.” 

“Just like that?” John asked as he took a bite and stared at this alien creature. He could now see that his clothes had been well worn. Nothing appeared new, and he wasn’t even sure if the clothes were new when he had come by them. 

“My name wouldn’t matter. If they called me Stephen or Peter, I would still be myself.” 

“Or Sherlock.” John suggested. 

Stephen chuckled. “You’re not thick enough to actually believe that. I had such high hopes for you, John.” 

“Think about it. You are the right age, and do have a striking similarity. They have been unable to find him, and you don’t remember who you were. It has to be a possibility.” John suggested. He didn’t really believe it himself, but it enticing to toy with the man across the table. 

“Statistically, do you know how many children are orphaned each year? Not to mention the ones living on the street. While a combination of blue eyes and brunet hair is uncommon, it is not that improbable. The likelihood that I am who you would like to think is next to impossible.” His words seemed to dance right out of his mouth. John couldn’t help but wonder if he even took a breath, or if his tongue was some sort of machine. Being a terminator would explain a lot about ‘Stephen’. 

“How do you explain you knew that book was Russian?” John questioned. “That would be something Sherlock Holmes would know.” 

“Unlike the majority of half-wits in this city, I am intelligent. I can also speak basic French and German. Doesn’t make me the long lost grandson of the German Chancellor.” 

“I’m not sure that Angela Merkel has any children.” John mentioned offhandedly as he pushed his food around his plate. 

“Who?” 

“The Chancellor of Germany. I thought you just – “ 

He sighed. “Unimportant information, John. Please do keep up.” 

John dropped his fork onto the plate with a loud clang. “We’ll have to find someway to get you out of the country. If you don’t have any records, we’ll have to think of something.” 

Stephen took a sip of his tea. “Not to worry. I have a few passports lying around. I’m sure I could be one of those people for a while.” 

He shook his head. “Do I even want to ask?” 

“I pick pocket people when they’re being annoying. I also have a few police IDs if you ever need one.” 

“I was right. I didn’t want to know. Eat.” He gestured pointedly with his knife. 

Stephen reluctantly took a bite. “When are we going to talk about your psychosomatic limp?” 

“I got shot.” John answered calmly. 

“Yes, but not in the leg. It bothers you, but when you stand for some time you forget it is there.” 

“We’re not going to talk about it.” 

Stephen paused for a moment. “Alright, what about the intermittent tremor in your left hand.” 

“Stop. Just stop. We don’t speak unless it relates to the plan.” John’s voice grew in command as he spoke.


End file.
